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“But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the time you made me meet that random stranger in that fast-food parking lot to sell your lava lamp from Facebook Marketplace,” he retorts with a laugh. “Who even uses Facebook Marketplace?”
I slap a hand to my chest. “Me. I’m an old soul.”
“Well, I thought I was going to die when that guy pulled up in a white sprinter van.”
“Oh, please,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. You were fine.”
He throws me a playful scowl from the driver’s side. “His username was a play on some famous serial killer.”
I chuckle into the wind, feeling the lightest I’ve felt in a long while. “Oh, shit. I forgot about that. Well, at least we made eighteen dollars off the lava lamp.”
“Yeah.” He snorts. “Risking my life for eighteen dollars was definitely worth it.”
“Goodness, the NHL has made someone a wee bit high-maintenance, hasn’t it?” I nudge his shoulder. “It’s a good thing we’re going back to our spot because we need to get you back to your roots.”
“My roots? I grew up in Chicago before moving to Nashville.”
“Yeah, but you were born in Texas. Therefore, you’re a Texan. Oh!” I blurt, remembering another thing. “Do you remember that mood ring proposal you did when you were eight? We were so fucking cute, planning our little wedding. What happened to it?”
He scratches his jaw. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Damn. I always wanted that ring back.”
That’s how the rest of our drive to Cibolo Creek continues. We volley stories back and forth, reminiscing about summers spent picnicking under oak trees and stargazing in truck beds until we pull up to the creek where I saved Wyatt’s life in that flash flood.
Most people would avoid the place where they nearly drowned, but it became “our spot” because he doesn’t remember this place as a death trap, but as the spot we met each other. To him, life isn’t just half-full; it’s full to the brim, and I wish I could be more like that…
I’m a half-empty kind of gal.
It’s easier to live life expecting people to let you down because they always do, which saddens me because before Boone, I believed the best in people.
We step out of Daisy Blue and walk up to the towering cypress trees at Cibolo Creek. Sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, casting dappled patterns on the little minnows darting through the crystal water. I can see all the way down to the rocky bottom. The old tire swing sways gently, still hanging from one of the massive branches, like something out of a country song.
“Come on!” I shout, stripping out of my red sundress dress. “Let’s jump in. See if that old tire can still hold us.”
He doesn’t answer, so I look over my shoulder to find him staring at my exposed skin. That’s when I remember I wore my fanciest red lingerie tonight because I thought I was going to end up in bed with a tourist. I like my muscular body enough, despite all the scars from bull riding, and he’s seen me naked thanks to a few whoopsies over the years, so this is nothing new.
“Come on, Patterson. Stop gaping and get in here.”
I expect him to blush and get all flustered like normal, but instead, his lips curve into this slightly arrogant half-grin.
“If you say so,” he drawls.
He keeps his eyes fixed on me as he unbuttons his plaid shirt, revealing his stacked eight-pack. I can’t seem to look away. Reaching down, he undoes his zipper. The sound scrapes through the babbling creek, and the pièce de résistance—he undoes his belt with one hand.
My mouth gets a tad dry, watching him undress so casually. When did undoing a belt with one hand become sexy? If that’s the new bar for men, women everywhere are ruined.
He strips out of his jeans until he’s standing there in his black boxer briefs, and heat slides down my spine. I can feel the ghost of his fingers rubbing circles on my thigh.
He really has turned into an attractive man. If he weren’t my oldest friend, if we didn’t harbor all these secrets together, I’d seriously consider dragging him back to my bedroom. But Patterson deserves more than a one-night stand, and every time I even think of kissing him, all those memories of our younger selves pop into my head.
I don’t even think the sex with him would be all that great because we were friends first. I’m imagining bumpy, flavorless sex, which isn’t worth ruining a friendship.
It’s beginning to feel borderline inappropriate, my staring, so I pull my gaze away to the worn rope and tug. “Think this tire swing can hold me?”
“Don’t you dare do it, Dakota,” he warns. “That branch looks like it’s about to fall off.”
“Oh, Patterson,” I say with a flutter of my lashes. “You should know by now that if you tell me not to do something, I’m damn well gonna do it.”
